Non Sequitur

Ina in Georgetown's H&M. They actually sell 80s apparel that we worked so hard to put behind us. Sigh. Makes for some great pictures though.

Pomegranates Gratuity

First and foremost, residency interviewing is fun. Second and quasi-foremost, Atlanta is more fun. As you might have guessed, that's the Santiago Calatrava Bridge in Buenos Aires and Forbidden City in Beijing. They all have something incredible in common now.

Its great to be back in Black Mecca. The sun is shining, the breeze is still with ephemeral emblazened maple leaves, and the night is filled with the expectant soulful elegance. Though, as most know, I thoroughly enjoyed my Morehouse years, it seems as though some of Atlanta's fine leadership got together and said, "Yeah, this city is fun, now lets make it undeniable."

Today, actually WALKED (as in pedestrian activity) all over the apparently vibrant Midtown Atlanta. As my iPod augmented my already verdant sense of the city (I now can confidently ascribe it as such) with the cacophonous melodies of London's Lady Sovereign through my white earbuds, my eyes burned with desire over sleek modern potential psychotherapy couches, ached for fresh healthy alternatives to Taco Bell, and longed to comfort my covetous stomach in the varied fusion and American restaurants.

One diserves particular mention. No no no. You misunderstand. Its name is One; One Midtown Kitchen is its extended name (vis-à-vis Egypt and the Arab Republic of Egypt). Its entrance glows a soft purple and is found in a pretty nondescript part of town betraying its superchic and urbane interior. The food? Now, let's reestablish that nothing could compare to my Uncle Wayne's barbecue. There is a certain emotional element that can only be conjured with knowing someone's soul for most of your living days. It becomes an expression of love in addition to tickling every gastric pleasure center.

While I know no one at One, they somehow managed to come pretty damn close with their Steak and Frites. It was that same exhilirating guilty pleasure experienced from a Ribka Halloween party at 4am, a first kiss in the style of the French with a short-term fling (from hearsay of course), enjoying while on call a novel by Zadie Smith, delicious delicious Zadie Smith (from experience certainly). Dripping with a sweetly tangy sauce of existential pleasure topping a hot, crispy fries whose inside is softer than your grandmother's heart on Christmas. Both were sliced with a supernatural perfection as if to suggest that our Heavenly Father is in the kitchen with the sort of furvor reserved for Abramoff lawyers. It was good.

Then it got better.

Some background: I went to this restaurant courtesy of the residents of the psychiatry program I'm applying for here in Atlanta (kudos to whomever chose). I was enjoying all of this in the company of four other applicants and two current residents. I was trying to hold back my more base instincts but my civility gave way as the pomegranate sorbet casually and confidently arrived on a bright rectangular plate. I used to mentally chastise those glowing, sweaty, new couples in Houston lounges and bars but felt in league with them as I softly (and noticeably) moaned with deep delight as I thoroughly enjoyed every spoonful of sorbet.

Honestly and without question, the best sorbet I've had and in the top three of best meals experienced and now joins Peking Duck in Beijing, and Medallón de Lomo Tenderloin at Cabañas las Lilas in Buenos Aires. I recommend the restaurant to all. My cousin Trey, who has certainly NEVER disappointed me in restaurant recommendations, has told me that the owner's second restaurant Two Urban Licks, is even better. I shutter to think what would become of me if I went.

Oh, Atlanta. You've grown up and have gotten a hell of a lot more sexier.

Enkuan Des Alesh!

Congrats, Ribka. Someone got some new hardware to show off.

Mac を得なさい。

If any of you are familiar with those quirky, "I'm a Mac, I'm a PC" commercials from the creative largess of Apple, I'm sure you'll find their new Mac Japanese commercials oh so entertaining. The one here is of that venerable straight-laced PC with a new virus. For a cross cultural comparison, you can see the original English-language American version.

Mid-Term Elations

It was a long night to say the least, and it certainly felt eerily like 2000 when I went to bed thinking the world was safe from ex-Yale cheerleader Imperialists. However, kudos to my state of birth, Virginia! Finally (and as predicted) the Commonwealth has elected a Democratic senator again during this years mid-term election (or at least Webb has claimed victory); much much sooner than I thought. Well, that is to say, if Republican's stay consistent in resisting court involvement in major elections (à la Florida 2000 and Ohio 2004). This, obviously, remains to be seen.

Apparently the rest of the world shares in my happiness. This is in addition to Rummy stepping out to let an ex-CIA Aggie from Pappa Bush run things for a bit. Certainly the winds of change have blown into town, like this picture of Washington National Airport (ironically in Northern Virginia) in Nov 2003. I'm eager to see in what direction they lead the country.

After years of thinking, "Well, things couldn't POSSIBLY get any worse," I have something to be politically joyful about. The circus is over. The skies are blue. Now for Obama '08. The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow perhaps?

Borat and Azamat's Excellent Adventure

Alright. Before I begin, I too admit that there has been an onslaught of press recently about this supposedly great movie "Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan." And initially I must admit I was more than a bit recalcitrant against the entertainment-industrial complex's saturation of its adherent, drunken vassal: The Media (à la man capris, Britney Spears, and of course Titanic). My lack of HBO furthered my Borat darkness.

That is of course, until I saw the most hilarious preview for 'Borat.'


If you haven't seen it, I'll won't spoil the surprises, but just know that despite appearing inane to its core, its actually quite the scathing satire of a vast swath of America; Civilized Southern Society, thoroughly inebriated college men, and the belly of the beast itself, the Upper East Side. Some would say that the character 'Borat' created by the British Comic of Ali G fame, Sach Baron Cohen, is a startling misogynist, anti-Semite, racist, with the acumen of a dim-witted Abramoff Republican. But contrastingly his benignly ignorant interaction with (somewhat) everyday Americans lures these poor souls to reveal their own startling misogynist, anti-Semite, racist, sides with Abramoff-esque dim-witted acumen. Sharply hilarious and scathing.

However, Cohen has been chastised by a number of rights groups, most aptly the Anti-Defamation League. This NY Times review sums it up best when it writes:

"...some people are definitely not in on the joke, though only because some people are too stupid and too racist to understand that the joke is on them."

Such is America. Sigh.

In any case, the only criticism with any teeth that it definitely portrays Kazakhstan, the nouveau-oil riche nation with a per capita income of about equal to the Kelly Blue Book price of a 1999 Buick Park Avenue, in a very, very....very poor light. Apparently, and not surprisingly inaccurate. Even the opening scene showing Borat's 'home village,' was filmed (stunningly) in Romania; remind me never to go to Romania. While at first the Central Asian nation tireless worked to block his website borat.kz, calling for a public apology, and vaguely insinuating imminent legal action, they've tried to take a cultural offensive and taken out ads in US newspapers, funding culturally accurate movies, and goodness knows what else.

In any case, take the film for what its worth: a hilarious critical look at the American Contradiction.

Borat, I support your War of Terror.

Non Sequitur

Perhaps Amy's dog is experiencing a weird sort of sibling envy. Congrats again on Amy's new kid!

Heilige Scheiße

Just the other day I got the shock of my life (or at least of my formative years given that birth and Vitamin K shots are more than disquieting). At 7:30 I received an interview to my number 2 residency program in Boston! Wahoo! This was after having to schedule a flight to interview in the only two states never to ratify the 18th Amendment (Prohibition), the home state of the oldest African-American church, the second capital of the United States, the city named for the 15th century Spanish Catholic saint St. Didacus, and of course a former independent Republic led by a known drunk and malfeasant.

I had to decline going to the city who one author described as 'loving a woman with a broken nose.'

I'm not a big fan of plastic surgery.

El Día de los Muertos

Okay, okay.

I know. I have been away for a while. It's certainly not because I was jet-setting to aid orphans in Botswana, strategizing with Democratic think-tanks over mid-term elections, or even preparing the psychiatric community with my yet-to-be-release NY Times bestseller grand œuvre "Psychopathology Matters." Nope, Halloween, man.

This Halloween specifically. For two explicit reasons, Coffeehouse and Ribka's Co-Op's Annual Halloween Party. If you aren't familiar with either this year, consider yourself remiss in your obvious miscalculation of what to do Halloween weekend, or amiss in that you obviously had way too many spirits...non-paranormal spirits.

First off. Ribka's Soirée:
So, yeah. Don't have many pictures of the evening as to not incriminate too many people, but if you remember anything from last year, you knew to keep you schedule clear 12 months down the road. As any true embodiment of Jimi Hendrix, I sauntered out my car with the lovely cowgirl-for-the-evening Sasha to be met at the gate of this Melrose-esque apartment complex by a clearly inebriated Roman Empress coquettishly slapping the derrière of her Wrangler boyfriend...or at least I'm assuming this was her boyfriend. This is, of course, to an audience of leather-bound ghouls and pixies (only some of which were in 'costume').


In any case, upon entry to the first apartment we found our gracious host appropriately dressed as Rosie the Riveter, a WWII icon that promoted the work of women in manufacturing jobs to support the war effort. Quite clever of the future ID doc, eh? The night was filled with throwback 1980s Hip-Hop and R&B, bewildering techno, and an incredibly smooth mix in between. Seemingly endless supplies of etOH flowed as comfortably as the deeply entertaining conversation with pseudo-cops, security guards, Supermen, and Nigerians dressed as 'Sexy Black Man.'

Huh. Your thoughts?
To the say the least a great night.



The second part of this weekend was Coffeehouse. For those that are not familiar with BCM's less academic traditions, Coffeehouse neither involves 'coffee' nor 'house.' Rather its more of a variety/talent show that's somehow morphed into a crazy Halloween party for the student body. This year, Shaheen AKA 'Afro-Persian,' Stacey, and myself decided to organize and host this year given our amazing 12 Days track record. So, mere hours after Ribka's party, I moseyed on down to Cullen Auditorium to start dress rehearsals, decorations, and general glitch-guruing.

After weeks of planning, late afternoons auditioning, early mornings decorating, and seeming endless piles of audio cables/connections/speakers/doodads, 8pm rolls around. This year, I thought I'd continue the acutely apropos political theme.

Previous costumes:
2004 Devil with construction hat that read 'Halliburton'
2005 Arab Sheik

This year:
North Korean leader Kim Jong-Il (with matching nuclear bomb)


I'd say a solid 70% of people didn't initially get it. I too share the love of my psychiatry compatriot of quasi-obscure costumes. Needless to say there were a number of 'and who is he?' stares that night as I talked to the audience. The audience however REALLY enjoyed the performances. Particular highlights were comical arrangements in honor of on-line-lecture-watching, getting 'down to business' in medical school, residency survival highlights, and of course, the infamous Stacey.

Just so you know, she's probably the saving grace of our class; she's, highly organized, always available to lend an extra pair of hands, and her energy knows no end. Think Cub Scout Den Mother meets Amphetamines and Klonipin. She had a VERY entertaining mix of Madonna's greatest hits with lyrics expressing her joy at the end of forced exposure to surgery. This is all complete with choreographed backup men. Absolutely priceless. Also, she can sing? Who knew?

The night drew to an end, we packed up Cullen for a well deserved afterparty...though very very wearily.

I was DEAD tired. I slept clear until 3pm the next day (which is WITH daylight savings time).

Wouldn't have traded it for the world.
By the way, something scandalous was said at exactly this moment. Happy Halloween.